Apparently, I'm a vegetable . . .

Last night, I was called a yam.
Yeah, like a sweet potato.
It’s partially my own fault, really. I made up a word: “yammish.”

I should have known that in cases like these, my own weapons are used against me. The hubs is a ferocious adversary, and, I, apparently, am the farthest thing from remotely intimidating.

No kidding: my first grader students—you know, little kids who break down crying at the tiniest thing—told me repeatedly that I wasn’t scary. In fact, they behaved for two reasons:
1. If they got a “fuzzy” taken away, they didn’t get to go to the treasure box.
2. If they thought I was going to lose my mind . . . One time, I put my hands over my ears, and one little girl started screaming, “Guys! Stop! She can’t take it anymore!!!”
So, anyways, they weren’t scared of me.

My middle schoolers laughed at me when I thought I was my most terrifying. It ended up as a running gag. I’d get all worked up, and they’d laugh, and then I’d laugh because they were laughing, and then one of my six-foot seventh graders would look down at me and say, “Mrs. B, don’t even try. You’re just not scary.”
Well, geez . . .

The hubs isn’t much better. The phrase, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” invokes no fear, no terror. You’d think that my monthly hormone surge might, but, even then, I’m not scary—I’m just emotional, and, for a man, quite perplexing. There is no fear, only frustration.

So, last night, I am attempting to insult Chris. When I insult someone I love, I call them “boob.” My cats are boobs, my dog is a boob, and Chris, believe it or not, is also a boob.
In case you were wondering, a “boob” is some kind of loveable idiot. Or something. Sometimes, I think I just like getting away with saying the word when it’s completely NOT necessary.

BOOB.

When he didn't react to the first declaration, I decided I needed to up the ante. I shouted the first thing that came to mind . . . and that was  "You're a yammish boob.”

You know exactly the kind I’m talking about.
I have NO idea what that says about my psyche, but it can't be good, right?
I mean, really, where does this stuff come from that's suddenly exploding from my mouth. "Yammish boob?" Really, brain? That's the best you can do? Golly wolly. I have no hope.

Chris isn’t insulted (big surprise). In fact, he’s never insulted. I just can’t seem to get the insult factor down. Just about every time, he laughs at me. After being called a “yammish boob,” he looks at me, mouth open in a grin only seconds from laughing. “A what?”
“A yammish boob. Ha! I just made up a word! It should be a word. Yammish.”
“You’re yammish.”
“*GASP!* I AM NOT!!! I am not a yam!”
“Yes, you are.”
“No! I’m not orange, and I’m not lumpy and odd shapes, and I’m not squishy.”
He pinches me. “You are a little squishy.”
“AM NOT!!!”
“And you are shapes . . . ”
“Everyone is shapes!”
He picks at a strand of my hair, “And, you know, your hair . . . it’s kind of perfectly . . . the color of sweet potatoes.”
“I am NOT a yam!”
“Yeah, I think you are.”
Pause.
“OH GOD!!! I AM A YAM!!! NOOOOO!!!”

Now that I think about it, Anne Shirley is lucky that she got away with just "carrots." I think being compared to a squishy orange tuber is far worse than a skinny orange veggie that helps with eyesight . . . maybe?

About ten minutes later, Chris said my Pipkin was yammish. I tried to defend her, but we both knew it was futile.

She is more a yam than I.

  Oh, and P.S. 
This morning, I received this message over our business IM:

Chris: i wrote a poem for you. would you like to hear it?
Me:  it's not the beautiful love type, is it? is it too much to hope for?
Chris:
There once was a man from Siam
Who ate himself into a jam
Along with his food
His poor wife he had chewed
Because she was only a yam
Sarah: you're awful

And, yes, I snickered despite myself . . . which is frustrating because he's in the cubicle next to mine so he can totally hear me . . . which only massages his ego . . . Clearly, we're the kind of folks who express their love through teasing, torment, and sarcasm.  It keeps life interesting ;]

The Secret Lives of Husbands (or The Tale of Chicken Nibble)

Ladies, how many of you find that the more your husband talks, the more you realize you really don't know that much about him? That he's had all of these secret adventures that, for some BIZARRE reason, he didn't think were worth mentioning?

I am so there right now.

I remember my mom telling me that, even after nearly 30 years of marriage, she was still learning new things about my dad, how one year he paid his college tuition in pocket change just to irritate the administration , how he hitchhiked home and caught a ride with a famous football player , how, as a kid, he used to try to turn toads into paratroopers, and other tales of fabulous that have yet to be discovered.
P.S. My dad is AWESOME.

Early on in our dating relationship, my mom began commenting on how much Chris resembles my dad . . . and it's true. Sure, they have their differences, but all in all, I married my dad with dark hair (Ssshh! Don't tell either of them I said that!), So, like Daddy, the hubs has secrets.
And he's a great story teller.
Nothing beats the well-told tale of a secret adventure.

Now, before I tell this story, I need to give some disclaimers:

1. The hubs is NOT a psychopath
2. The hubs is NOT cruel to animals . . . except for the occasional hunting trip . . .
3. The hubs does, however, have a powerful sense of justice
4. So, if you are animal, mineral, vegetable, and you wrong someone the hubs adores, watch out. He's coming to get you. 

Ok, now keep these in mind as I tell you the story that simultaneously shocked and humored me.

"Chris, there's a bumper sticker that says 'I brake for Oviedo Chickens.' What the crap does that mean? Are they vegetarian? Is that a football team or what?"
"Haha! You don't know about the chickens?"

Ok, peeps, anyone who hasn't lived in Oviedo for generations has no idea about the "famous" chickens. And they probably could care less. The quirks of town pride.

"Well, there are these wild chickens that live in the Popeye's parking lot downtown. Yeah, the fast-food chicken place.  Irony, right? Anyways, you're going through the drive thru, and you have to stop because some hen and her chicks will walk right in front of your car like they own the place. They kind of do--been there for years.  Haha, if one restuarant had no excuse for skimping on good meat, it's that place. Seriously, the meat there had better be super fresh. Ha!"

I didn't know whether to laugh or be disgusted. Seriously, famous chickens? At a restuarant that serves their dead and fried relatives? But really . . . chickens? So famous that they are the icon of the town, on every "Welcome to Oviedo" sign? Chickens?

"Did I ever tell you the chicken story?"
"No?"
"Well," Chris begins, "I knew this guy . . . who had a cousin he was good friends with . . ."
"You and Joe, right?"
"Stop interrupting and maybe."
"Uh-huh."

So the story goes, that the world's sweetest grandmother, we'll call her M, went to the bank next to the chicken Popeye's and was unjustly attacked.
By a chicken.
Sweet, sweet M, who would never hurt a living creature, went home wounded and bewildered and related her death-defying flight from the viscious man-eating chicken to her grandson Joe. Now, Joe is the kind of guy you want on a road trip--he's witty, laid-back, free-spirited, and impulsive with the knack for turning almost anything into an adventure. So when M told Joe of her wounds, he jumped into action, calling up a posse that included his ever faithful sidekick, Chris. Dun-dun-dun!

Imagine if you will, a handful of teenage boys hopping into Chris's old, giant green Bronco and whizzing off into the night, embarking on a covert ninja mission of revenge.
Against a chicken.
They arrive at their destination and sniff out the offending bird. How they knew it was THE chicken, I don't know, but Chris assures me no innocent birds were harmed in the creation of this tale. No, they only ninjaed the guilty, blood-thirsty fowl. 

Have you ever driven while trying to hold a chicken? Or drive while someone tries to hold a chicken in the backseat?
Neither have I, but Chris tells me it's not fun. That the bird is loud and refuses to be still, that it pecks, flaps and attacks with its large, sharp talons (I dare you NOT to think of the Napoleon Dynamite quote right now).  So the boys decided to solve the problem with great resourcefulness and ingenuity: they applied a leather belt to its neck.
To me, this screams instant death to a creature with small hollow bones and delicate constitution. I guess the guys thought that it would serve as more like a leash? or a gag? I don't know. Somehow, they were surprised that after it went LIMP and silent and was consequently tossed in the trunk, that it turned out to be dead.
No kidding.

Not that the chicken's death foiled their plans. No, they continued to drive out to the middle of nowhere, in the dark, to a restuarant famous for housing a live twelve-foot gator.

Let me interrupt for a moment. Anyone who KEEPS an aggressive, carniverous reptile twice the size of a grown man is insane. I'm of the opinion that meat-eaters THAT big in close contact with humans should be shot on sight. In isolated unhumanized portions of the world, sure let them live. But don't keep them as pets and or mercifully relocate large aggressive creatures to places like Lake Jessup where there are 10,000 of the monsters lurking in the water, waiting for some unsuspecting meatbag to come within reach. Ugh. Hate gators. "Now," you say, "Remember, they're more scared of you than you are of them."
I'm sorry, but that's complete and total bull. I'm dinner. Are you afraid of your cheeseburger? No? I didn't think so. I'm the cheeseburger, and I'm bloody terrified.

End soapbox. Back to the story.

So here they are, a handful of teenage guys, intent of revenge and blood (that's the BEST kind of revenge, right?), and there it is: a monstrous mound of scales, muscle and teeth, floating in its tank, lethargic and, as every massive creature is, hungry.
Really, monsters never stop eating right? There's ALWAYS an appetite.
Wrong.
The guys found this out the hard way when they tossed in the chicken carcass. The plan was to throw in a LIVE chicken and enjoy the show of thrashing, screeching, blood, guts, and feathers.
Yeah, not so much.

Turns out the gator wasn't hungry. Wasn't even remotely interested in the meat floating next to its snout. Dead flesh? Who wants to eat it dead? Warm, pumping blood that's where it's at. Stupid teenage humans.
I'm assuming that, if it were capable of thought, this is what must have been going through the reptile's head . . . but I'm very likely wrong.

After the initial shock of the incredible BORING state of the situation, and hovering, hoping, for some action, the guys realized that the evidence of their crime was floating around in clear sight.
And so they ran off into the night, laughing.

Has your significant other or a friend ever revealed the story of an unexpected, secret adventure? 

Teacup Conversations Episode VIII: The Impediment

According to Christopher, I have a speech impediment.
I'll bet you money you'll never guess what it is.
Go ahead: Guess!
Ready?
I can't say the "s" sound in plural forms of words ending in "s" or "st."

Example:
"Chris, on your way home from work, can you stop by the grocery store and pick up a pack of chicken breast?"
"Breasts?
"Hmm? Oh yeah, I have those."
"No, breast-S!!! You said the singular but you meant the plural. Chicken breast-S!"
"No, I said the plural. Breast."
"BREASTS!!!"
And it goes on for about five more minutes. And no, really, we're talking about chickens.
Then there the morning drives when I fuss about spandex-laden cyclists ruling the roads. "Ugh! Cyclist here are crazy!"
"You mean cylist-S?"
 "That's what I said!"
"No, you didn't. It's cylclist-S! CYCLISTS!!!"
You get the idea. I sit there giggling uncontrollably, and Chris finds himself in that odd place between laughing and frustration with my befuddling impediment: the inability to speak plurals . . . such an easy concept, not grasped but slaughtered in my fumbling hands . . . er lips.

It brings back flashbacks of when we were dating and Chris came to the harsh realization that I am incapable of saying "poem." Apparently, I say "pome." Which, you know, is awesome as a lit teacher. I'm ruining the next generation. Golly.

That was the nice thing about first grade--they worshipped my every word.
When I confessed I couldn't say "poem" correctly, they quickly assured me that I was . . . and that my husband was obviously the one really saying it wrong. Hmm, who'da thunk it?
One day, I forgot my lunch, so Chris popped into the classroom to bring it to me and watch the kids light up (they thought he was a celebrity, living-proof that teachers exist beyond the classroom).
"Hey, say poem!" one little boy blurted out.
"Uuuuh poem?"
"Ha! You said it wrong! Mrs. Bocci says it right!"
We were both trying really hard not to laugh--Chris at the silly innocence of children, me at the sweetness of  almost-victory (I get those so rarely)

Do you have any funny speaking habits?

Oh and P.S. Guess who was featured on an up-and-coming healthy living website. 

C'est moi!
*Squeeeeee!!!*

Thank goodness all this obsessing over decorating plans has come to some sort of fruition, even if it's not monetary. :] I'll be posting mini-articles with decorating tips each week for a few weeks. The site is fabulous and definitely worth a look waaay beyond my home decor article. I feel so hipster now. I think I need to don big, vintage pair of glasses, a scarf, and a glass of organic almond milk. So hip.

Teacup Conversations Episode VII

Do you know what makes dieting extremely difficult? Having a husband who is bound a determined to thwart all my plans.
"Sarah, are you hungry? I think you are. Hmmm . . . how about Taco Bell?"
Oh cruel, cruel man to use my kryptonite against me. I can't help it if I salivate. That's like asking a cat to resist scratching/ruining the furniture. It just doesn't happen.
"Oh, wait? I think . . . a supreme chicken chalupa? Yes, chicken and cheese . . . and the sour cream . . . a touch of tomatoes and lettuce? Ah, yes perfection. Wait . . . maybe a chicken quesadilla? Chips and cheese? Yes, yes, yes. I think so."
"Nom, nom. no, no--NO!!! No!! I didn't mean to say that! Oh, crap! You're vile!"
Chris is dying. And grabbing his wallet. "So what will it be? Nacho Belle Grande or the Chalupa?"
"Neither! I'm not hungry!"
Chris lays his ear to my stomach. "VILE LIES!!! It speaks to me, and it says it needs Taco Bell!"
"No, it does not!"
"But you just said you were hungry! Come on, let's go get Taco Bell."
"I can't be eating this late at night! It won't leave!"
"Exactly! Now, let's go! You know you want the delicious chips and cheese. Mmmmmm. Chalupa. Come on, you're drooling. Chips and cheeeeeese . . ."

How could anyone lose weight under such conditions?!
But yes, in case you're wondering, I resisted.

We just stayed up watching Weird Al music videos instead.
Because we're such grown ups.
Totally.

Teacup Conversations: Episode V

The hubs and I have had an ongoing "discussion" about weight loss. I've decided that, even though I have no interest in being skinny, my current weight is not going to be a help to my health in the long run, especially when we decide it's time to start a family and suddenly an extra forty pounds is thrown on. Chris, ever sweet and ever adamant, declares there is absolutely nothing even in the slightest bit wrong with me. I believe him, but the fact that I shopped for three hours Tuesday and was unable to find a pair of shorts or skirt that fit tell me that it's time to make an adjustment. Plus, I feel fabulous when I'm eating right, eating less, and working out.

Today, the hubs decided on a different approach. He presents me with a tiny serving of my homemade blueberry cobbler, frozen yogurt, and a glass of milk (in a Star Wars cup to add to the seduction ;]).
"Sarah, what if, instead of the words 'weight' or 'fat,' people called it 'lusciousness.' Do you really want to lose lusciousness?"
 "Seriously? Luscious? How long did you take you to come up with that?"
"Just right now.  . . . But I think it's been with me all my life."
"Oh you are so so smooth."
"You're going to eat the cobbler, right?"
Ah yes, that ooey, gooey, sweet cobbler.  "But . . . it will put me over my calorie li--" and there's a spoon suddenly in my mouth.
"There," Chris says, "better. We won't talk of calories. Lusciousness, remember?"

I think the man has a point.
"That dress makes you look luscious" has a great ring to it, don't you think?

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck and other riddles

So, the hubs is emptying the trash, and turns to me with great severity. "Sarah, Pipkin has just committed an atrocity."

I look up from my perch in the gaming chair curiously. Pipkin is the newest edition to our little family: an orange and white tabby we brought home last Fourth of July who enjoys chasing, cuddling, and making the most insistent cat noises--no it's not meowing, I don't know what it is. The best way to describe it, really, is Pipkinese

"She has pooped more than any Pipkin should ever poop."

I'm trying not to laugh.

"Then," Chris continues, desperately, "she doesn't cover it! No, she just starts scratching on the plastic wall of the litter box, over and over again, like that's going to do anything! GAH!"

"Pooped more than any Pipkin should poop, huh?"
"Yes!"
"How much, is that exactly?"
"Too much. WAY too much. More than any cat should ever have been able to poop."

At that moment, the guilty party pranced into the room, paused, glanced from me, to Chris, and back at me, then meowed with the confusion of the clueless innocent. 


It's the little things in laugh that make me laugh.
That, and the fact that it's passed my bedtime.

Teacup Conversations: Episode IV

So, Chris and I were totally going to be diligent citizens and file our taxes tonight before this big shutdown going on (I totally don't understand the point of that but whatever--this is the reason I'm not the president), when we discover that I never received my W2 from my old library job . . . that one I quit in July 2010 to pursue teaching.
So . . . I'm one job short for tax filing. Dandy. Just plumb fine and dandy.

Sarcasm? A bit.

So, I go out to browse the internet, trying to find the answers, when Chris comes out to join me with an encouraging peck on the cheek. Cute, right?

"Chris?"
"Hm?"
"One of my kids told me today I smell like lemons. That I always smell like lemons . . . where the crap does she get lemons? I mean, I wear orange or coconut lotion sometimes, but lemon??"
"Heehee, I married a lemon."
"Oh gee, thanks."
"No, it's a good thing. Lemons are bright and happy."
"Yes, and a lemon is also what you call a really crappy car someone tricked you into buying."
I don't think that Chris had any reason to laugh as hard as he did. No, it wasn't a justified guffaw in the least bit.

Somehow the conversation turned into a discussion on my hatred of not bugs, mind you, but cockroaches. Demons with six legs and vile antenna of utmost wicked nature. I had one fly at my head once, chased me through the house. They're evil incarnate. Gah. So, Chris decides to soothe me by making his fingertips scuttle across my arm then painting mentally crippling images of giant finger-thick antenna attached to man-eating roaches. I think I'm over my shower-stalking zombie fear, now. No, now I'll just be imagining the cockroach from Men in Black hiding outside my shower waiting for me to step out so it can devour me. It will all start with a toe nibbling . . .

Thank you, Chris.
Thank you SO much.

Teacup Conversations: Episode III

Monday is our day off.
Personally, I like it better than having Saturdays off together (as a teacher, I DO get Saturdays off, but Chris, being in retail, does not . . . I WIN!).  Everyone else is working, so we pretty much get the town all to ourselves. Not that we really ever go out on the town. Hermitage. Boo. ;]

So, anyways, this past Monday, we sat down to some Steak 'n' Shake and start chatting. First was an epic debate on whether sharks or gators were scarier (Um, gators, hello!!! Chris, darling, you are so misled). Then, I decided to take the conversation on a different route (ok, so I was sort of stalling so I could come up with more points on why giant man-eating reptiles are scarier).
"Chris?"
"Yeah?"
"We've been married almost a year and a half. We've been together for almost five--which is like half a bloody decade--and known each other for almost nine years. Have I rubbed off on you?"

Chris stopped, tilted his head, pursed his lips, and actually thought about it.
You have no idea the hope this gave me. The hubs, while a wonderful person and I would never ask for any other, is a man who sticks to his guns. Meaning he doesn't change his opinions or habits easily. Meaning at all. The thought that I might have influenced the almost-uninfluence-able was HUGE.

Finally, "Yeah, I think you have."
You might as well have handed me a million dollars. "How?!"
"Hm . . . I don't know."
And you took those million dollars right back. "What?? Oh come on, how have I rubbed off on you?"
Surely, a sense of mercy, financial consciousness, openness, something.

Chris thought again. "Well, I guess I've started talking to the cats like you do."

You just hit me in the face with that million dollar bundle. "Wait. What??"

"Yeah, I mean, I talk to Pipkin like you do because I've kind of come to think of her as like a furry extension of my wife." He was trying not to laugh.

I hope my face fully expressed the insult I was suffering. It must have--Chris started laughing. Hard.

So, yes, after nearly ten years, I have taught my husband how to talk to cats . . . because they remind him of me.
Epic. Fail.

Teacup Conversations: Episode II

Browsing good ole facebook, the source of all gossip and scandal, I had had it. No really. I couldn't contain it any longer.

"Chris! Everbody's having BABIES!!!" (seriously, fb fertility is getting pretty crazy)

Considering he's sitting right next to me, I probably didn't need to shout. Chris knows my fb rants. When I got out of college, everyone else was getting engaged. He called it, "let's tell Chris about another engagement and look at him expectantly" game.

"And?"
"I mean, I'm not begging for one right now or anything."
" 'Kay."
"In fact, I have a plan!"
This is the part when Chris tries to appear like he takes me seriously and not like he's about to laugh.
"When everyone's finished having babies, then WE will have a baby! And it will get all the attention! Because it's the only baby around!"
"You devious woman."
"I know, right?"
Yeah, I'm pretty proud of myself. See? I'm totally learning patience.

Now, I'm going to browse Target and Ikea websites for decorations for the rental house we don't have . . . but may this summer/fall! Whoot!

Yeah, totally patient. ;}

Rehearsal Dinner October 2, 2009

Teacup Conversations

If this is coffee, please bring me some tea; but if this is tea, please bring me some coffee. 

--Abraham Lincoln 

I'm afraid that my title is slightly misleading: I own no teacups, and the more's the pity.

But Chris and I do have several conversations late in the evening, he on his computer and I lounging in a my favorite papasan nearby spouting off madness. Sometimes tea is involved--Sleepy Time, usually, or some other decaffeinate herbal drowned in vanilla creamer. Some conversations are about the game he's playing. Sometimes it's on the meaning of life. Sometimes it's about work or dreams to change the world. Sometimes politics (which usually leaves us in an invigorating sour mood--nothing is more energizing than feeling you could do the job better . . . even though you don't want the job and probably couldn't do it anyways). Other times, I try to shock and appall him with random facts on pregnancy I've researched, just so he'll better appreciate what I will one day go through while he simply makes midnight runs for avocado or whatever oddity I will crave but never eat under any other circumstance. 

No, I'm not pregnant. 

I'm just a planner. In grade school, I planned for high school. In high school, I planned for college. In college . . . I planned little . . . except midnight runs to Taco Bell and how to save up for a semester overseas. When I graduated, I planned a wedding. I got married . . . it seemed only logical to plan one or both of the next reasonable steps: home-buying or pregnancy. God is teaching me to live in the present :] 

But, yes, all that to say, there is no baby. Not yet, anyways. 

ANYWHO . . . 

Tonight's topic?

Treadmills, Being Buried Alive, and the Benefits of Treadmills in Case of the Latter   

Me:Can I ask you something?   
Chris: You mean other than the question you just asked me?   
Me: Pfft. When we move out of this tiny apartment, so we have room . . .  Can I get a treadmill? I know they HAVE to have them for cheap on Craig's List. 
Chris: Uuuuh . . . house or treadmill?   
Me: Treadmill is much cheaper than a house.  
Chris: Every little bit helps.    
Me: Don't say that. It makes me not want to spend money on groceries *wink   
Chris: Ok, money does you no good when you're a corpse, so . . .   
Me: Coffins are expensive! I don't know why, because it's not like anyone can admire it after the funeral . . . or you can enjoy them . . . or the padding inside.    
Chris: They have padding?? 
Me: Oh yes, so the corpse is comfy. Cause you know, you can totally enjoy it after you've gone.   
Chris: Well, I mean, if I get buried alive, I'll be sure to enjoy it.    
Me: I AM TERRIFIED OF BEING BURIED ALIVE!!! Like in an avalanche or a landslide or a coffin! Just imagine all that tangible suffocating darkness, swallowing you, and you can't move or figure out which direction is up as you suffocate and freeze to death.    
Chris: You'd suffocate before you'd freeze.    
Me: Doesn't matter! They're both dreadful.  
Chris: It's not like you'd need to know the direction up, anyways. You'd be dead before you could do anything.   
Me: Not true! People dig their way out. I've seen National Geographic disaster specials, and people dug out.  
Chris: Ok, so it's possible to survive.    
Me: But I can't dig out! I'm a weakling.
Chris: Hence the treadmill? 
 Me: Exactly! I use a treadmill, work out, get strong, and then I'll be able to dig out of being buried alive!

I don't know about you, but I think it's pretty foolproof . . . and that I'll be getting a treadmill once we move. Yup.

Oh, and that was the abridged conversation. It only got weirder . . .

This is how I spend my evenings with the hubs, laughing and discussing the outrageous. It makes for a great night :]

Do you have any weird phobias? Or favorite tea time topic?